Happy Camper
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: When camp counselor Marcie suddenly finds herself in the world of TWD, her favorite TV show, she realizes just how terrifying a place it is, and struggles to find the strength she needs to survive. {OC. Based on a dream I had.}
1. Prologue

**Happy Camper**

 **Prologue**

Julie groans, and lays her forehead on the scarred wooden kitchen counter. "This is the longest summer of my life."

"We have only two weeks of camp left. Besides, why are you in such a hurry to get back to school? You're the only sophomore who has to repeat Introduction to University." Yes, that's a real class – an easy half credit for freshman that is meant to help them endure the transition between high school and post secondary. Basically all you have to do is show up, fill in a worksheet here or there, maybe complete a quiz or two. The class is a breeze. No one _ever_ fails it; except, apparently, my best friend Julie.

Unfortunately for her, the class was scheduled 8am on Monday mornings during freshman year. On Sunday nights, it was our weekly tradition to gather blankets and snacks, and huddle together on a sofa in the dorm lounge to watch "The Walking Dead" on AMC. It usually aired at 10pm our time, so when it ended at 11, I headed to bed (frequently with a tear stained face and my guts feeling gross and twisted). Julie, however, would pull out her laptop and spend the next four or five hours on Twitter, Tumblr, and Pinterest indulging in the fandom and reacting to the newest episode. She almost always slept in. I think during the entire semester she only made it to two Monday morning classes – the first one, when we received the syllabus, and the week show didn't air. (She watches reruns just as religiously as new episodes.)

Julie takes offense. "What kind of sadist schedules a class that early on a Monday anyways? If you ask me, Professor Stein is really to blame."

"Stern."

"What?"

"The professor who teaches that class. His name is Stern, not Stein."

Julie dismisses me with a wave of her hand. "Whatever. The man has the personality of a stick. He's so boring. When he talks, it's like someone propped up a corpse and used it as a puppet." Julie's brown eyes sparlkle, and I know exactly what she's thinking.

"You're thinking about Walkers again, aren't you?"

"C'mon, Marcie, you love the show too."

"Yes, I do. But I have no morbid desire to actually live through the zombie apocalypse, unlike you." Julie's has t-shirts, posters, and even pillow cases printed with grotesque pictures of the undead. I might put Andrew Lincoln as my laptop background, but my fascination with zombies ends there. "Besides, you know for me it's all about the human aspect."

"Ugh! You are such a Psych major."

"I'm majoring in Social Work."

"Same thing." They really aren't, but trying to argue with Julie is like trying to get butter from a rhinoceros. "You wouldn't survive the Apocalypse anyway. You're too soft." At that, I take offense.

"Hey." I throw an unopened bag of marshmallows at her, and they bounce off her head.

"See?" She laughs. "I offend you, and the best you can do is throw a bag of tasty sugar pillows at me."

"I could throw a pot if you prefer."

She shakes her head, rips open the bag, and shoves a marshmallow in her mouth. As she speaks, the gooey fluffiness rolls around her teeth, and I remember the night she managed to convince me to play Chubby Bunny with her. "You're just too nice."

She's probably right. I snatch back the bag of marshmallows, and thrust a tray lined with perfectly squared chocolate pieces into her hands. I've been cutting bars into equal sections for the last several minutes, while she did absolutely nothing to help. "Julie! Those are for the campers!"

"You're such a mom, Marc." She laughs, but I can tell by the affectionate way she says it that she means it as a compliment.

"Yes, and you're a terrible helper." She may be a fan of zombies, but there is _nothing_ more terrifying than hyper kids waiting too long for s'mores.

I grab the graham crackers and two bags of marshmallows. Julie inconspicuously swipes a piece of chocolate and pops it into her mouth. I see her do it, but don't say anything, because God knows I love her.

Dusk has fallen. We've forgotten to turn on the outside light so the steps are dark as we exit the mess hall. "You know, Marcie-" Julie begins, but I don't hear the sage advice she is about to utter. Something hits the side of my head, I experience the sensation of falling, and the world fades from violet to black.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

I wake in darkness. The ground is hard beneath me, and I suddenly realize I am sore. My entire body aches: my feet, my ribs, my arms, my abdomen; everything from the tips of my toes and the place underneath my kneecaps, to the bottom of my tailbone and the inner knot of my belly button, to the nerve-endings at the points of my fingernails and the very roots of my hair. I hurt in places I didn't know existed! I didn't know it was even possible for the follicles inside your nose to hurt! I feel like I've been hit by a truck, or gone against Louis in thirty rounds of log wrestling.

The second thing I realize is that I stink. You shouldn't be able to smell your own scent, but I am grubby and rank. It's like in high school when you don't have enough time after gym to shower before next bell, so you spend the rest of the day reeking of sweat and angsty, hormonal BO. Only I smell like I haven't showered after an entire month of gym classes. Like dirt and vinegar and something coppery – a heavy, sticky scent that makes me nauseous. Altogether it's an oddly earthy, primitive smell, but not appealing or pleasant in the slightest.

My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see the starry night above me. A million twinkling lights a thousand lifetimes away, shining through the blackness of a midnight sky. It's cool, and I curl deeper into the warmth of my sleeping bag. We must we doing one of our camp outs, dragging everyone out of their cabins to experience a night under the stars, but usually we choose far warmer nights. And more clear and even ground. I don't recognize the trees, but that isn't too disconcerting. It's difficult to recognize anything in the dark.

Little bodies in sleeping bags are huddled close to mine, almost on top of me. There should be six, but I only count three. The other girls must be bunking with other campers and counselors, which is fine by me. The sleep-outs are a great way to make friends in other cabins, but the girls should have told me where they'd be. A good counselor always knows where her kids are. A great counselor's kids never want to be away from her.

I notice the voices. I peek around the end of my feet, and I can see silhouettes gathered around the campfire. I can guess some of their identities by figure. The flickering flames illuminate Jordan, the Head Counselor's face, and dance light across Julie's profile. They both look haggard and exhausted.

"We should put out the fire," a woman's voice suggests anxiously. Regina – she's always nervous.

"If there were any in the area they would have seen it by now. It's freezing. The kids need the warmth." To prove his point, Jordan pokes at a smoldering log that breaks and sends sparks into the air. He continues a conversation I have missed the beginning of: "I think we should rest here a few days. We've secured the area, and we're exhausted. We can't keep going this way."

"We should keep moving!" Ron interjects, and in his voice I hear his customary arrogant tone.

"And go where?" Julie snaps. "It could be weeks, maybe months until we find a suitable place. We should lay low for a few days. The less moves we make, the better."

"Better a moving target than sitting ducks!"

"We can't aimlessly drag these kids around the country. We need to be cautious, bide our time, until we can find something better."

"Time is something we don't have!" Ron argues. "We could all be dead tomorrow. I say, leave the kids behind. They're not going to survive anyway, and they're only slowing us down!"

Julie stands up, and even from my position I can see the angry fire in her eyes. Her hands ball into fists at her sides. She's going to slug Ron. She's wanted to all summer, and he's finally pushed her over the edge. "Why you despicable…"

"Julie." Oliver comes forward from where he's been hiding in the shadows and places a steady hand on her shoulder. What I wouldn't give to be her shoulder in that moment, warmed by the fire and heat of his touch. Julie looks at him, takes a deep breath, and sits down again. "Nobody is abandoning these kids. We're all they have. We need to keep searching for a more secure location. We all agree with you Ron; we need to keep moving, but we need to rest when we can. The world's gone to hell, and it won't be getting better anytime soon. There's still lots of time to die."

"We finish the night here," Jordan says calmly, but in a way that refuses to be questioned. He has made his decision. He listens to all opinions, but in the end he makes a decision, and he sticks to it. No doubt. No second guessing. He's kind but steady. That's what makes him a terrific leader. "Tomorrow morning I'll take Marcie, Julie, and Oliver on a supply run. We'll scout out the area ahead. Now, everyone go to sleep. I'll take first watch." The group around the camp fire disperses. Julie heads towards me, and for some reason I close my eyes and feign sleep. I don't want her to know I was awake and listening. She burrows herself in her sleeping bag beside me, and rolls closer, until our backs are touching through the fabric, like we used to do as kids. It was our way of comforting each other. I feel her heartbeat hammering through me as if it were my own. I want to roll over and calm her, let her know I understand, even when she gets so angry and upset the words all disappear. I want to ask her what the heck is happening. But I don't. I want until I hear her breathing slow, and then I let myself fall asleep too, because there is nothing else I can do.

 ** _WALKINGDEAD_**

Normally when Jordan wants us to go out for supplies, a couple of us pile into the camp van and drive into town to pick up a few necessities: milk, soda, cereal, popcorn. So the next morning, when Julie wakes me up at the crack of dawn by throwing a backpack in my face, I'm surprised. "Hurry and get up. Jordan wants to leave."

I pull myself out of my sleeping bag, and assess the state of my clothes. They are dirty and grubby, and stained dark with substances I'm not sure I want to identify. "Ready, Marc?" Oliver smiles at me, and I feel my legs start to melt.

"Stop it. You're blushing." Julie shoves something into my hands. It's a machete. She gives me a _machete_. Why on earth do I need this? And where the hell did she even get a machete anyway? "What's wrong?"

"What do I need this for?"

"In case you get into a trouble." She steals a quick glance at Oliver, who is standing off to the side talking to Jordan. "Despite everything, we've been damn lucky this far. But there's going to come a time when you'll need to do this. It'll happen in the blink of an eye, and if you're not ready you'll get yourself killed. Or you'll get the people who love you killed when they're trying to save you."

"Julie, what-?"

"Julie. Marcie. Let's move out." We don't take the van. We don't take any vehicle at all. We jog stealthily through the tree line at the edge of the road, in a forest I quickly realize I have never seen before. At every little sound, we stop and wait. I don't know who or what we're trying to avoid, but I get the feeling that if I ask they'll look at me like I'm stupid.

After walking half an hour, we come upon a ghost town. It's completely deserted, like something you would expect to see in a western film or spooky movie. There isn't a person in sight. If it was an old town, ancient buildings falling apart at the seams, tumble weeds rolling down dusty streets, the lack of people might be understandable. But I can see a Walmart in the distance, the famous golden arches reaching heavenward nearby, and a Barnes Noble on the corner. It's quiet. Too quiet. There aren't any animals. No dogs rooting through overturned trash bins or cats tiptoeing on ledges. There are no birds chirping. No mice scurrying.

What happened here?

We pause at an intersection and discuss our options. The traffic light above us is flashing red, green, and yellow simultaneously as it swings in the breeze. Oliver keeps looking around us, checking over his shoulder. I can tell by his arm muscles, peeking out of his sleeves, how tense he is. "We should try the Walmart," Julie suggests. "It has everything we could possibly need."

"The place will be crawling with them. It's not worth the risk. We'd be endangering our lives on the off-chance someone has gotten there first and cleared it out."

Julie concedes Oliver's point, but I can tell she still wants to try Walmart. "What's the most important item on the list? We should worry about finding that first."

"Antibiotics," Jordan says immediately. "Children's Tylenol. Multi-vitamins. Any other supplements we can find."

Oliver nods. "I've noticed signs of anemia in a few of the kids. All we'd need is a case of scurvy or worse."

"Okay. We'll start with a pharmacy."

"Like that one?" I point down the street. Next to the bookstore I have been watching longingly is a small white building called simply "Anderson's Pharmacy."

"Good eye," Jordan praises, at the same time Oliver says, "Way to go, Marcie!" I blush at their attention and follow behind as the boys lead the way. Julie falls into step beside me. "Keep it in your pants, girl," she chides, but she nudges me playfully with her elbow.

Jordan and Oliver pause at the door, Julie and I wait a few feet behind. Jordan motions silently with his head, his hand on the door handle. Oliver nods. He unsheaths the hunting knife at his hip, and holds it ready in his right hand. With his left hand, he knocks loudly on the glass. Julie holds her axe. Jordan has a gas-powered weed-whacker strapped to his back. I suppose, if I had been thinking about everything, I should have found this odd. Were we going out to do some landscaping? Why all this sneaky business? If they need me to cut up some carrots for supper, I can do that, but wield a machete? Who do they think I am? Rambo?

Julie motions for me to hold my machete higher. Oliver knocks again with the heel of his hand. Jordan throws open the door, and – nothing. No sound. No people. Oliver pokes his head in and looks around. "Clear."

"While you guys do your thing in here, I want to check out the bookstore." I can never resist a good bookstore. But clearly I have said something stupid. The others are staring at me like I've suddenly sprouted a second head.

"We stick together. Come on." Oliver takes my hand, and we tiptoe into the pharmacy. It's dark, except for the pale light shining through the front windows. Deciding it is safe, Oliver releases my hand and we begin searching through the merchandise. Julie grabs a shopping basket from the front, and begins filling it with items. Oliver begins loading bottles into his backpack. I'm not sure what I am supposed to be looking for, so I wander the aisles. I think of the girls in my cabin, and grab a couple packs of crayons, packages of colorful ponytails, new toothbrushes, and a couple hair brushes. I don't know how we're going to pay for all the stuff we're taking, or _who_ we're even supposed to pay. If the store and its contents are abandoned, does it counts as stealing?

Jordan disappears behind the counter, into a back room, where the pharmacists keep their prescription drugs. He's pre-med, so he's more qualified than the rest of us to search through medications. After I shove a few toiletries into my bag, I move onto a shelf of socks. From experience I know there are few things more uncomfortable than wet, dirty socks. My feet are itching in a way that tells me I haven't changed my sweaty pair in a while.

"Find lots of good stuff?" Julie's basket overflows with bandages, Tylenol, and bottles of water. I show her my stash, and she frowns. She disapproves. I start to explain my reasoning, when a large crash from the back interrupts me, followed by yelling – more than one voice, more than just Jordan. Maybe he's found the pharmacy owner.

Julie's reflexes are as quick as a cat's. She tosses aside her basket, drops into a fighting stance, and holds her axe ready. Jordan appears slowly, his hands on his head, but he is not alone. Oliver, who has silently approached behind us, steps in front of me protectively. I am so shocked at the sight of a gun being aimed at Jordan's head, and the gruff voice that commands us to lay down our weapons, that at first I don't recognize the man holding the gun.

"Oh my gosh! You're Andrew Lincoln!" He looks scruffy with his beard, but I would know those eyes and that forehead anywhere. Andrew looks from one side to the other, as though confused to whom I am referring.

"Marcie," Oliver asks, "you know these guys?"

"Sure. That's Andrew Lincoln. And," I point to the men flanking his left and right sides, "that's Norman Reedus and Steven Yeun. They're actors. They star in that TV show ' _The Walking Dead_.'" I'm surprised Julie didn't recognize them before I did; she's basically in love with Reedus.

"I don't know who you think we are…" Steven and Norman exchange a look and shrug. Steven's hair is shaggy and sexy, and a hint of stubble sits under his nose and lips. Norman is carrying his signature crossbow and wearing his iconic leather vest with the angel wings. As usual, his arms are sleeveless, exposing his sinewy muscles.

Wait a minute… "Oh my gosh! Oh MY GOSH! You guys are here filming an episode, aren't you?" That would explain the deserted town – blocked off from fans and nosy spectators for filming. Why else would they be here? Holy sugar plum, were we going to be extras on the show?! Were we secretly crashing the set? Is that why everyone was being so sneaky? Why hadn't anyone let me in on this little secret? Why hadn't Julie told me? Holy zombie, an episode of TWD!!!

Breathe, I remind myself, or I'm going to start fangirling all over the place. I start looking around for the cameras and the director, makeup artists on standby and the other actors, Chandler Riggs or Danai Gurira, waiting for their cues to enter. But there is nothing.

"Marcie." I hear the warning in Julie's voice. It's the same tone she used when we were kids and I tried to approach and pet a wild, probably rabid, fox; and it's the same tone she used in high school when I told her Sully Washington had asked me out. How is she containing her excitement right now? She loves these guys more than I do.

I glance at her, eyebrow raised in a question, but she's not looking at me. She's staring at the guys, her fingers white-knuckled as she tightens her grasp on her axe. She's not drooling at the sight of Daryl Dixon, like she normally does. She's glaring at him suspiciously, sizing him up the way she does the creeps at the bar who hit on her and she needs to decide whether this guy is going to turn into a problem she'll later have to taze.

That's when I finally realize I've made a grave mistake. Something is wrong.

"I don't know who you are we are, but we ain't acting." This comes from the uncanny Reedus lookalike. "Hell, I can't remember the last time I watched TV. It's the end of the world, girl. Where have you been?" The end of WHAT?

If this is a joke, it isn't funny anymore. I want them to stop.

"Don't talk to her like that!" Oliver steps forward, clutching his knife. Not-Norman whips up his crossbow, and the pointed end of his arrow is real and sharp. Very real and very sharp. If this is what I'm starting to think it is, this situation could go sour fast.

"Ollie." I grab his arm. This is a fight we won't win.

"Give us your weapons and supplies."

"No." Hatred is flaring in Julie's eyes. Not-Andrew clicks off the safety on his gun and presses it against Jordan's head. I lay down my machete and toss them my backpack. Oliver does the same. "No one needs to get hurt," he says. He gestures for Julie to follow our lead. She shakes her head. "Jules."

"We'll die without our weapons, Oliver! I didn't risk my life looking for supplies just so these _assholes_ could steal from us! We have people depending on us."

"So do we," the Korean guy insists, but he's hesitant. Inside he knows this is wrong.

Julie rolls her eyes. "Right, because you guys sure look like you've had it rough. You're bullies. Same as all the others in this God-forsaken world. I bet you guys get off on this survival of the fittest shit. This is probably a dream come true."

"Ain't no dream," crossbow dude says. He unzips my pack and looks inside. "What the hell is this?"

"We have kids," I say. "A lot of them."

"We were camp counselors," Oliver adds, "when the world ended."

The crossbow guy throws back Oliver's pack and then mine. "World ain't ended yet." He nods to his companions, and pushes Jordan forward. Jordan stumbles over to us, and Oliver steadies him.

The guy with the itchy trigger finger growls. "You take your stuff and you leave. Don't come back. I see you following us, and I will kill you."

"We haven't finished!" Julie starts, but Jordan tells her to shut-up. We grab our stuff and back towards the door slowly. Oliver makes sure the coast is clear. I hang back a moment behind my friends and look at the men in front of me. "Thank you," I say, and then on a hunch, I add, "You're a good man Daryl Dixon."

"Hey, how do you know…?" But I quickly slip out and run down the street, disappearing before he can catch up to me and ask me any more questions.

This is too much for me to think about. The odd behavior. The stealth tactics. The fear and tension covering everyone like a wet, lingering stench. I did not just meet three of my favorite actors. I met Daryl Dixon. Which would mean I also just came face-to-face with Rick Grimes and Glenn Rhee. But that doesn't make any sense. They're not real. They're characters in a television show. I must be dreaming. I have to be dreaming. But this world, it feels so real. I start counting fingers, but have exactly five on each hand. No matter how many times I count, the number is the same. So I resort to pinching myself, rubbing at my face, banging my fist against the side of my head.

We are nearing camp. I have only travelled this path once, but the landscape is familiar. I'm going crazy. I must be. There's no other explanation. I unconsciously grab a fistful of my hair – an odd nervous tick I've had since childhood. "Marcie," Julie asks, "are you oh-?"

Then we hear the screaming.


End file.
